


Professional

by windmill



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Crossfaction, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Romance, SniperSpy, Trust Issues, Warnings for mentions of vomiting and drunk driving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windmill/pseuds/windmill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not very professional to fall in love with your enemy.<br/>A documentation of the developing relationship between the RED Sniper and BLU Spy, from enemies, to drinking buddies, to lovers and back again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After having read enough SniperSpy fics and figuring out just how I wanted to write them, I'm pleased to say that I'm rather satisfied how this is turning out. This is the first fanfic I've posted online in about four years, though I've written quite a lot of original fiction since then. It's also my first TF2 fic, so my apologies if I've somehow stepped out of fandom-line. I have pretty much no idea how long this is going to be. One warning is that I don't speak French, though Spy does, so anything in French is going to probably not be so great, so I welcome corrections.  
> I'd also like to say that this is going to be set in the established TF2 verse, though with RED and BLU maybe being slightly larger companies, which I'll explain in the second chapter.  
> There's an 8tracks playlist if you want to give it a listen: http://8tracks.com/iamnotawindmill/to-be-hidden-that-way  
> Enjoy!

            The dust had settled from the day before, but he knew it was going to rise again. Morning was always a silent blessing until the first shot rang out in the otherwise quiet desert. The shouting came next, then the explosions, and then the screams.  It was a regular Tuesday morning in Teufort. 

           He took another sip of lukewarm Mann Co. Insta-Coffee™ and sighed, pushing himself off the crate. He shot at the BLU Heavy and quickly ducked from the window to reload.  A bullet whizzed over his head and he muttered a curse as he looked for the BLU Sniper out the window.  It only took a second to spot the little orange dot in dark of another window across the field and he quickly shot it, finally breathing when the orange dot fell away.

            “Damn prick shouldn’t smoke if he doesn’t wanna get seen,” the RED Sniper muttered under his breath.  He hated that bastard. Everything about him was cold except for the cigarettes he smoked.  Some putrid American brand that made his nose scrunch.  He could practically smell it now and it made him grit his teeth as he set up for his next shot.

            Except for some reason it now smelled a bit different, a bit less awful and a bit spicier, like cloves.  The Sniper frowned and lifted his head from the scope, grabbing for his Kukri, which was, unsurprisingly, not where he’d left it.  He swore and looked around the room to find the BLU Spy holding it.

            He didn’t look at the Sniper for a second, before saying, “Oh, I’m so sorry, were you looking for this?” fiddling with the knife before stabbing it into the wall.

            The Sniper sighed.  “Listen spook, I’m not in the mood for any of your games today.”

            “Games?” drawled the Spy, “Oh I wouldn’t call them that.”

            “Then why the hell haven’t you killed me yet?”  The Sniper rose, shoving his hands into his pockets to see if he had anything he could use as a weapon.  Two receipts, a dime and four pennies.  Drat.

            “Ah, I was just wondering,” the Spy paused, “what exactly it would be like to face you in unarmed combat.”

            The Sniper ran a hand over his face.  “Christ mate, I’m really not in the mood for this.”

            “Oh please,” the Spy drawled, “it’ll be fun.  And if you beat me, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the day.”

            “And if I loose?”

            The Spy shrugged.  “I’ll kill you.”

            The Sniper considered for a second.  “Alright. Seein as how you’d kill me anyways.”

            “I’m so glad.  I have been oh-so-curious about this for a while, mon amie.” He bared his teeth, almost a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.  He took off his jacket and hung it on the handle of the kukri. The Sniper was a bit surprised to see how much thinner the Spy’s shoulders were without it. He almost looked frail, but the Sniper knew that he wasn’t weak.  They’d fought enough times for him to know that.

            They readied themselves with wider stances and raised fists, standing like that for a moment before the Sniper swung at the Spy’s jaw. He dodged easily and hit him in the side, though the Sniper was expecting that and rolled with it to kick the Spy in the left shin.  The Spy spat something in French, probably a curse, before landing a punch square across his face. The Sniper recoiled and socked the Spy straight in the nose.

            They grappled like that for a few more minutes, spluttering and grunting, before the Sniper managed to tackle the Spy to the ground and sit on his chest. They were both breathing heavily. The Spy had a bloody nose and the Sniper had a black eye.  He grinned a toothy grin.  “Looks like I win, spook.”

           The Spy smirked, raising an eyebrow a bit.  “Au contraire,” he said, and the Sniper hadn’t realized that he’d wiggled an arm free to smack him with his palm in the forehead.

           The world spun for a moment, and he realized that their positions had been switched, now with the Spy leaning over him, still wearing that fucking smirk.  “What the hell’d you just do?”

           “Simple. Gave you a concussion.” The Spy’s hands then went around his throat, and the Sniper choked as he tried to scramble free. As he was about to loose consciousness he gathered all of his strength and kicked the Spy in the stomach. He flew off of him, though he didn’t let go of the Sniper’s neck.  The two tumbled right out of the window and into the warzone.

           The Sniper woke up in respawn a few minutes later with a headache and a curse on his tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

            The rest of the day passed calmly for the RED Sniper.  Well, relatively calmly, considering that they were at war.  And sure, he did have to run around to find new places to shoot from without getting shot at.  But shooting people was calming.  And no one was bothering him.  Yes, the rest of the day was a good one for the RED Sniper.  His job was significantly easier when the BLU Spy wasn’t coming to bother him.

            Though he wasn’t sure who had won their little fight, he decided not to think about it too much.  He wasn’t even sure why the Spy had wanted to fight him in the first place.  It’s not like they hadn’t fought before, though usually at least one of them was armed.  Actually, out of any of the BLUs he’d ever met, the RED Sniper wound up fighting the BLU Spy the most, and this spy in particular.

            They’d first met around nine months before, back when they were at Sawmill.  He didn’t like Sawmill that much; mostly because he ended up getting a bit fidgety whenever he wound up on defense.  And those blades always scared the crap out of him so he avoided them whenever he could.

            He wasn’t expecting the BLU Spy to show up, mostly because before that December morning there had been no BLU Spy at Sawmill.  He’d stabbed the Sniper in the back, who’d woken up rather confused in respawn.  He’d died again later in the day, but not before he’d gotten a glance at his killer.  The first thing the Sniper wound up noticing about the BLU Spy were his teeth; they were small and yellowed by nicotine.

            He slowly began noticing more and more things about him, as his reflexes quickened during each attack.  The Spy was about average height, had a hooked nose, grey eyes, and skinny bowlegs.  There was nothing about him that really stood out, which the Sniper figured made him a good spy of course, but something about the faces he made always caught the Sniper off-guard.  He made plenty of faces, both when killing and being killed, but his eyes were always blank and emotionless.  It was a bit disconcerting to the Sniper.  Even he wasn’t too fond of feelings (he preferred standards), he couldn’t help but have a few about death.  The Spy, on the other hand, seemed to have none.  The Sniper didn’t know if he should be impressed or just terrified.

            He didn’t really know when they started “talking.”  Well, at first it wasn’t really talking much at all, bit more shouting and swearing at each other.  But eventually it grew into banter, constantly belittling each other.  Sometimes there were crude insults, “Where did you get your teeth from, Bushman?  A crocodile?” and sometimes there were backhanded compliments, “I see you got quieter, Spook.  But you ain’t quiet enough yet,” and sometimes there were just, “Fuck you!”s.  But occasionally they discussed the battle, their teammates, or their lives off the field in short remarks between insults.  The Sniper didn’t really know if anything the Spy said was true of course, and he did pretend that he didn’t live out of his van, but for some reason he enjoyed it.

            In March, the RED Sniper had been relocated to Badwater Basin. He enjoyed it much more than Sawmill because it was out in the open desert and he felt like he could breathe.  He couldn’t remember the exact reason for his transfer, something about a new recruit, but he wasn’t complaining.  He was constantly in the center of the action, just as he liked it.

            He didn’t really notice how much he missed that BLU Spy.  There was another one at the Basin of course, but they didn’t cross paths as much and they certainly never talked.  Most of his time was taken up by getting rid of the BLU Engineer, but sometimes, in the dead of night as he laid in his van, he did wonder how his old enemy was.

            His questions were answered in late July when he was moved again to Teufort during the hottest week of the year.  When he’d first arrived he was greeted by a RED Spy, a tall fellow who sneered at nearly everyone he spoke to.  The RED Spy promptly informed him that Teufort was the most important of all of the bases that RED held throughout the world, and that their intel was the most important thing he would ever guard.  The result was that the mercenaries employed there were the most qualified out of anyone that RED ever hired.  The Sniper had been flattered at first, that he was RED’s best sniper, until he met the rest of his team.

            The Sniper had never been especially close to his teammates.  Most of them were either gun-crazy or money-crazy or just plain-ol-crazy.  But his new team was something completely different—they were devoted.  RED-crazy.  Practically a family by the time he got there.  He quickly learned that the Medic and Heavy had been working together for four years already, and most of the team had already been there for at least a year, the only exceptions being himself and the Scout.

            In fact, most of the team even had nicknames.  The Engineer went by Truckie, the Medic went by Doc, and the Spy was fondly referred to as That Pompous Douche (though not to his face).  The Scout quickly earned the name Motormouth after about a week on the team.  The Sniper wondered if his team called him something when he wasn’t there.

            Turned out that the old Sniper he was replacing had just retired, as had the old Scout.  He’d been the best of the best and had been at Teufort as long as anyone, maybe longer.  He’d decided to retire since he’d met a nice girl while on leave, a girl who apparently didn’t judge him too much for his old profession, or at least was pleased with the money that he’d made.  The RED Sniper (our RED Sniper) quickly discovered that he had big shoes to fill.

            The first day on the job he’d mostly hid and scouted out a few nests.  None of them were especially secretive, so he’d have to move around a lot.  He ran into the BLU Pyro once (terrifying) and discovered that Teufort’s respawn technology was some of the oldest and left him feeling nauseous.  He stumbled back out and through the courtyard, when he spotted the Engineer.

            “Hey Truckie,” he’d called out, “whatcha doing over here?” but for some reason the Engineer didn’t respond.  The Sniper was no idiot, of course, and quickly shot him with his submachine gun, unsurprised when the RED uniform turned BLU.  He rolled his eyes before continuing back to look around and shoot some more.

            Later in the day during a bit of ceasefire, he stopped for lunch (beef jerky and an apple) in one of the nests.  He could find traces of the old Sniper in all of them, rubbish and bloodstains.  There were also tallies in chalk on the walls.  Days?  Kills?  Deaths?  The Sniper wasn’t sure.  He wondered if he should clean up a bit or if that’d be disrespectful to his predecessor.

            Mid-afternoon sun filtered through the window as he sat on a crate.  Halfway through his apple however, he thought he heard footsteps and quickly grabbed his kukri and stood up.  He looked outside of the nest and saw no one, but when he turned around he promptly discovered the BLU Spy sitting on his crate and eating his apple.

            He stood in shock for a second (for no good reason when he thought about it later), while the Spy spoke.  “I thought it was you when you shot me earlier.  It has been a while, Bushman.”  The Spy rose and extended his hand.  But instead of grabbing it, the Sniper pulled him into a tight bear hug.

            The Spy was stiff for a second, before relaxing slightly.  As the Sniper was about to draw away, however, he felt a sharp pain in his back.  He found himself in respawn a few minutes a bit less happy to see his old rival.  Still, later in the day he wound up with a lopsided grin after he’d seen the Spy again through his scope (and shot him too).

            They saw each other much more after that.  In many ways, their banter was the same as it had been before, “You’d better stop smokin those prissy-ass cigs if you don’t want me to smell ya coming,” but sometimes it was a bit less insulting, “Have you grown your hair out a bit?  It is a better cut for your face, Bushman,” and a bit more, well, friendly.  Absence makes the heart grow stronger, as they say, though the Sniper was adamant that he would not become “friends” with an enemy.  It was simply unprofessional.

            But, he thought, what was getting really damn unprofessional was the Spy and his games of cat and mouse that he would play whenever he got bored.  He would make some gamble for each of their lives and the Sniper had no real way out of it unless he just wanted to get stabbed.  And it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy them, or find some thrill in the chance that he might die (though not for good), or that his nerves always felt like they were on fire.  No, the problem was that he enjoyed himself as much as the Spy did, which distracted him from shooting the BLUs.

            Shooting people was simpler and had no emotional residue that stuck in the back of his mind.  There were many things that the Sniper had decided to simply not think about, and they were easier to forget with a gun in his hands.  He could focus on being calculated, on his technique, and on winning.  Winning was a good thing, to be the victor his ultimate goal.

            The day ended with a RED win and a pat on the back from the Engineer.  They sat in the mess hall and recounted their best moments, laughing and jeering at the other team.  The Sniper enjoyed it, even if he sat a bit to the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support so far! This chapter's a bit longer than the last one, and the next one's even longer w hoops. Sorry that this was a bit of an info dump of exposition.


	3. Chapter 3

            There was a knock on the door to the Sniper’s van.  He looked up from the shirt he was patching (bullet hole from the BLU Sniper) to glare at it.  He wasn’t expecting guests and hardly anyone from his team ever visited, except for when the Soldier wanted to yell at him or the Scout wanted to ramble at him.   He grumbled and called out, “I’ll be just a minute,” stowing his sewing kit in a drawer and instinctively grabbing his kukri.

            He opened the door to see an unlikely face.  The RED Medic stood there with an imposing smile and a six-pack of beer, though at least he didn’t have his damn bird.  “I was just dropping by say hallo, herr Sniper, and perhaps to have a chat?”

            The Sniper’s throat went dry.  It’s not that he didn’t like the Medic; he was just terrified of him. He liked to experiment on his teammates in his spare time, and while the operations were all well-intentioned for battle, they weren’t exactly painless.  But he was a hard man to say no to since he was the best thing that could save you from another painful trip to respawn.  So the Sniper attempted to crack a grin and said, “Sure, come on in.”

            “Thank you,” the Medic grinned a bit wider, and stepped into the van, which shifted slightly under his weight.  The Sniper was surprised that it didn’t dip too much; maybe the Medic was lighter than he thought.  He placed the beer, some imported German brand, on the small table and stood with his hands behind his back.

            “My my,” he tutted, looking around at the clothes and ammo scattered about the van, “You have really let this place go, haven’t you?  You know, they say that a messy room is caused by a messy mind. Do you have a lot on your mind, herr Sniper?”  He looked straight at the Sniper then, who quickly straightened his back and attempted to make eye contact.

            “I dunno, Doc.  I do kill people for a living.”

            “As do I, but I never allow my lab to get nearly as messy as this.” He picked up a shirt from the ground and sniffed it, wrinkling his nose and dropping it again to continue poking around through the Sniper’s things.  “Have a seat, herr Sniper.  There are a few things I would like to talk to you about.”

            The Sniper obliged and slid into the booth, eying the beer. “What’s the fret, Doc? Somebody giving you trouble on the field?”

            “No, I was simply requesting your advice regarding our recent strategies.”

            The Sniper raised an eyebrow.  “You know we’re not supposed to talk about that off base.”

            The Medic shrugged.  “The Soldier is, ah, not agreeing with my views, shall we say.  I thought it would be better to discuss elsewhere.” He turned around and continued looking through Snipers things.

            “Call a team meeting then.  Or get Heavy to threaten him, I don’t know.”

            The Medic tried to turn around to respond, but instead gracelessly tripped over a rifle barrel.  He slammed into the side of the van, scattering a few papers and swearing as he fell to the floor. The Sniper may have been unsurprised at his trip due to the (small) amount of clutter, but he was a bit surprised when the labcoat became a blue suit.  The Sniper scrambled out of the booth and snatched up his kukri, quickly bringing it to the other’s neck.

            “Merde,” muttered the BLU Spy, lying face down in a pile of papers.

            “Ya bloody weasel!” the Sniper spat, “Get out of my fucking van!”

            “I would love to, Monsieur,” groaned the Spy, “but there is a knife in my face.”

            “Give me your weapons then.”

            “Save me the embarrassment, Bushman, and just kill me now.”

            “Not in my van I won’t.  Blood’s a pain in the ass to clean out.”  The Sniper started patting around the Spy’s back.  “Save us both the trouble and tell me where your gun and knife is.”

            The Spy groaned again, “My pistol is in my back right pocket, and I have a knife in the front of my jacket.”

            The Sniper carefully pinned the Spy’s hands behind his back and retrieved the gun, placing it up on the counter as far as he could reach.  Then he awkwardly reached under the Spy to grab the small pocketknife, which he tossed onto his bunk.  “Alright, where’s the other knife?”

            “Other knife?”

            “Yeah I know you have at least one other knife on ya, cause you’ve stabbed me with it before.  Where is it?”

            The Spy sighed, “Really Bushman, do you not trust me at all?”

            “The hell kind of question is that?  Course I don’t trust ya!”

            “It’s up my left sleeve.”

            The Sniper was surprised that the Spy would tell him that so easily, but quickly pulled it out and put it up by the revolver.  He picked up his kukri again and released the Spy’s hands. “Alright, you can sit up,” he said.

            “Merci,” the Spy grumbled, rubbing his hands as he turned to face the Sniper.

            “Alright, so why the hell’re you here.”

            The Spy paused for a second, then shrugged.  “Research.  It is good to know one’s enemies, no?”

            “But I’m off hours.”

            “So?”

            “I’m off hours,” the Sniper said again and the Spy rolled his eyes.

            “We are at war, Bushman, there are no ‘hours’ except for the ones our employers keep.”

            “So what were you planning to do?  Get me drunk so I’d spill some company secrets?  Cause I don’t know anything.”

            “No,” he rolled his eyes again, “I was attempting to, ah, ‘get to know you.’ Outside of a combat situation, for I know you in no other context.”

            “And you expect me to just believe that?” the Sniper growled, ready to jab the knife into his enemy’s throat.

            “It is not a lie.”

            The Sniper paused for a second, pulling the kukri away slightly. “So you’ve got another motive then.”

            The Spy smiled his usual joyless smile, “But of course, Bushman. More than one, in fact.”

            “You feel like telling me any of them?”

            The Spy thought for a second, then explained, “One of them is that most all of my team refuses to talk to me because they do not trust me. You, on the other hand, trust me less, but talk to me more.  It is only natural for a person to crave conversation.”

            The Sniper stared at him.  “You’re shitting me.”

            The Spy winced.  “I am not ‘shitting you.’ Now, may I take my leave and my beer?”

            Every one of the Sniper’s bones told him to pick the Spy up by the balaclava and throw him out the door, but part of him wondered just how serious he was. “One beer.”

            The Spy quirked an eyebrow, “One beer?”

            “Yeah, but just one.”

            “Alright,” the Spy said uneasily, as the Sniper removed the knife from his jaw. As they stood up, the Sniper noticed that the Spy seemed smaller than he usually was.  Tired, somehow, like he wanted to curl into himself.

            They sat down stiffly in the booth, the Spy placing the Razorback that normally sat on the opposite side on the floor and pulling out a beer. “Are you suggesting that we share one beer, or that we each have our own?”

            “What?”

            “Well, you did say ‘one beer,’” he imitated the Snipers own voice then, causing him to shudder, “So I wasn’t exactly sure what you meant.”

            “You tryna be smart with me?” the Sniper asked, grabbing his own from the pack. The Spy shrugged and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as the Sniper tore his off with his teeth and spat it into the garbage can. 

            “Disgusting,” the Spy muttered, and the Sniper glared at him.

            “You can’t just prance on into my home and insult me.  At least pretend to be civil.”

            The Spy scoffed.  “You want me to be civil,” he said, “when you are the one who pees in jars and throws them at people?”

            “It’s practical,” he said through gritted teeth, rising out of his seat slightly, and the Spy put his hands defensively in the air, slinking back. “You ever try sitting in a place for a few hours?”

            “Oui, but I do not drink as much coffee as you do.”

            The Sniper sat back down and the two drank in silence for a while. The Sniper didn’t realize that he’d been looking strangely at the Spy until he shot the Sniper a questioning look.

            “Sorry,” he muttered, “ ’s just weird having someone else in here.”

            “Do you not normally have guests?”

            “Wouldn’t call you a guest, but no.  I don’t. Bout the only person who’s come in here this whole month was Scout, and that was cause he forced his way in.”

            The Spy nodded.  “He does not strike me as the type to understand ‘personal space.’  I despise people like that.”

            “Tell me about it,” the Sniper grunted, taking a swig of beer and glancing at it appreciatively.  “This stuff’s pretty good, actually, if it’s not poisoned.  Better than the American shit you can buy here.”

            The Spy smiled a smile that almost struck the Sniper as genuine, though maybe not quite.  “Thank you,” he said, “I may hate the Germans, but they do know how to make good beer.”

            “Where’d you get this, anyhow?”

            “I am, ah, friends, we could say, with the man who owns the brewery. He sends me crates of it sometimes.”

            “You’ve got a full crate of real beer here?” the Sniper asked with what he quickly realized was a bit too much excitement.  “I mean, how’d you stop your team from drinking all of it?”

            “I do not keep it all here,” the Spy rolled his eyes, “Most of it I store in one of my apartments.”

            “You’ve got apartments?  More than one?”

            The Spy pursed his lips.  “That’s enough questions,” he said, standing with his nearly empty bottle. He glared down at the Sniper. “Much too personal for my tastes.”

            “You can’t ask me things and think I’m not gonna ask things too,” the Sniper protested.

            “That is true,” the Spy paused, “I will consider returning another night, but you must understand that there are questions I will not answer.”

            “Whoa, I didn’t invite you back, spook,” he said quickly.

            “That does not mean that I won’t come,” the Spy said with a shrug, dropping the bottle in the trashcan and picking up his gun, knife, and beer.

            “I should just kill you now,” the Sniper sighed.

            “You could, but we are off hours.”  The Spy cloaked and said, “You will have to open the door for me, should anyone be passing by.”

            The Sniper grumbled but obliged, holding it open and stepping outside. “At least give me some warning if you’re coming back,” he said to the empty air. 

            Suddenly, something touched his hand and he found himself holding a cigarette. He frowned but put it to his lips, watching the end abruptly catch on fire.  “Thanks,” he said, inhaling the familiar taste. It was strange to taste the same spice that he’d only smelled when he was about to die.  He took a long drag, then dropped it and stamped it out with the heel of his boot.  He shivered slightly, reminding himself to stay on his guard, and went back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad people are actually reading this haha. I'll have the next chapter up in a few days!


	4. Chapter 4

            Five minutes after the alarms sounded on Wednesday, the floorboards creaked. The Sniper looked up from his scope to be confronted with the BLU Spy brandishing his pistol only a few inches from his forehead.

            “Where is the rose,” he demanded in a whisper.

            The Sniper sat stock still with wide eyes for a moment, before realizing, “Oh, you mean your knife?”

            “Yes,” bit back the Spy, “You stole it from me last night.”

            “No, you just forgot it,” he said, “It’s in my van.  Didn’t think I should just give you another thing to kill me with on the field, ya know?”

            The Spy narrowed his eyes.  “Return it to me.”

            “Fine, fine,” the Sniper sighed, “You can come by my van after the day’s over. And maybe bring some beer, if you want.”

            “Good,” the Spy said, though he still stood with his arms rigid and his teeth clenched.

            “I gotta say though, that’s one girly-ass knife,” the Sniper teased.

           The shot rang in his ears as he respawned.

           The Spy backstabbed him (with his other knife) again later in the day, this time without the Sniper hearing him at all.  RED was losing by quite a good deal, and the desert was hot in early September, so the Sniper was glad when the bell rang to indicate their defeat.  He stopped in the base to take a cold shower, narrowly dodging the Soldier’s rant about how the team was a total failure, before going back out to his van, parked in the lot with the rest of the team’s cars.

           He should have been less surprised as he opened the door to see the BLU Spy poking through his stuff.

           “Really, Monsieur,” he said, leafing through a gun magazine that the Sniper had left on the counter, “You should invest in a better lock.”

           Something yelled at him in the back of his mind to get the Spy out now, before he found something he could use as blackmail, but the front of his mind asked, “So you found your knife then?”

           “Of course,” the Spy replied with a slight smile.  “You did not hide it very well.”

           “I didn’t steal it, I found it after you left,” the Sniper sighed, sliding into the booth and grabbing a beer. He decided not to mention discovering the knife as he climbed into bed, flipping it open to find roses engraved on the handle and blade.  There was also something written in French on it that he couldn’t read as he studied it in the moonlight.  He also didn’t mention staring at and fiddling with it as he fell asleep, wondering exactly why the Spy had shown up at his van.  Sure, there were the obviously professional reasons, but it seemed that the Spy had realized before he even asked that he wouldn’t learn anything from the Sniper.

           And why now? The Sniper didn’t think anything had exactly changed, at least there was nothing that he could think of. The only thing of note that day had been his fight with the Spy, which really wasn’t all that unusual.

           He had realized as he lay there that his brawl with the Spy had been the closest human contact he’d had in a long time.  Since that time at the Basin, about three months before, which he promptly decided he shouldn’t think that much about.  He had more important things to think about, like doing his job and staying alive. And maybe also stopping the Spy from going through too much of his stuff.

            “Can you stop poking around?” he asked, and the Spy glanced at him.

            “I am a spy,” he said with a shrug, “it is my nature to poke around.” He joined the Sniper (who decided to open his bottle without his teeth this time) in the booth.

            They sat and drank without saying anything for a second, until the Sniper cleared his throat to break the silence.  “You uh, fought good today,” he said, and the Spy raised his eyebrows under his mask. “Didn’t notice you creepin up on me that last time.”

            “Do you normally compliment your enemies?” asked the Spy with a slight smile.

            The Sniper shrugged.  “Dunno, just seemed like the thing to say.”

            The Spy frowned them and thought for a minute, causing the Sniper to look at him questioningly.  “I am trying,” he said with a sigh, “to say a compliment to you.  That is what you expect, correct?”

            The Sniper laughed and said, “No, no, I didn’t mean—”

            The Spy cut him off.  “I am trying to know how to say it in English,” and he thought for a second longer. “I admire…your focus. Envious, in fact, that you can always concentrate so well.”

            The Sniper stared at him for a second.  “Uh, thanks spook.”  He took a sip from his beer and asked, “You some kind of happy drunk or something?”

            The Spy chuckled.  “I am not drunk. I have not even had a full beer yet,” he raised his bottle to show the Sniper.  “And I will not be drunk until I have had at least seven.”

            “Seven?” the Sniper wondered, “I thought you’d be some sorta lightweight, cause you’re tiny.”

            The Spy winced, “I am French.  And I am not tiny, you are just very tall.”

            “Nah mate, you’re pretty damn short.”

            “You are comparing me to the people from your home.  Every Australian I have known is a giant.”

            “Well, it’s from the Australium,” he said with a shrug, “makes everyone really tall and have a lot of hair.”

            “I see,” the Spy said with a pensive expression.  “Is it true that the women all have beards?”

            The Sniper shifted in his seat and glanced out the window.  “Uh yeah.  Some of em do, depends on how much Australium is near where they grew up. Course some of them shave it.”

            The Spy looked at him for a second, and asked, “Have you had a bad, ah, experience with a bearded woman?” and the Sniper was sure that he had just turned beet red.  He frantically searched for an answer.

            Suddenly he remembered what the Spy had said the night before. “That’s a personal thing,” he said, and the Spy burst out laughing.  The Sniper sat still and told himself to not punch the Spy as he doubled over.

            Eventually he settled down.  “I am sorry,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye, “I should not laugh. We have all had bad experiences with women, but that is a very funny one.”

            “It wasn’t funny when it was happening,” the Sniper muttered and shook his head. “So what’s the worst sex you’ve had?”

            The Spy scrunched his eyes and grimaced.  “I think the worst,” he said, “was when I was a younger and undercover in Russia. I needed some information from a politician, and sex was the best way to get it.  I do now wish that I had discovered a better method.”

            “Well what was so bad about it?” the Sniper asked and the Spy winced.

            “She was sixty, maybe older” he said and the Sniper couldn’t help but chuckle, earning a glare from the Spy.

            They talked about nothing of consequence for a while longer, until the six-pack was gone and the Spy stood up.  “If we are to continue talking, I should not come here so often,” he said, “also, I will run out of beer much too quickly.”

            “That’s fine,” the Sniper said with a shrug.  He held the door open as the Spy cloaked and followed him out into the evening breeze.

            As he leaned against the side of the van, he felt the same tap on his hand and a cigarette appeared between his fingers.  “I stopped smoking a few years back,” he said, looking at it.

            “And started drinking disgusting coffee instead?” came a quiet voice near his ear that sent shivers down his spine.

            “Coffee doesn’t glow,” he said, putting the end to his lips and watching it catch on an invisible lighter.

            He didn’t know when the Spy walked away, but he stayed out in the night for a minute longer, savoring the cigarette and wondering exactly what he was getting himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd have this up by Saturday but life decided it would be funny to walk up and punch me in the face, so here it is on Tuesday. Oops. The next update will probably take even longer, because I have to go to far away places to do things that are really important.  
> I forgot to mention in earlier chapters which weapons each character is using. The Spy uses the Ambassador, the Sharp Dresser, the Black Rose (I realize it doesn't make sense for him to have two melees, but I mean, if we're being realistic, he'd be carrying as many knives as he could fit on his person so), the plain ol disguise kit, and the Cloak and Dagger. The Sniper has like every gun in game stowed in his van, but he uses the default stock Rifle, plain ol Submachine Gun, Jarate (which won't be mentioned much because I think it's already been mentioned that he has to move around a lot, and hey, when you're moving you don't have to pee in jars as much!), Razorback (again, it's in his van but not always used), and the Kukri. Lots of default stuff for him (probably because I'm a shit Sniper so I don't play him much and don't actually have a bunch of unlockable stuff whoops).  
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

            The Spy did not visit the camper on Thursday, so the Sniper ended up taking that evening to clean.  He needed to do laundry too, but that would have to wait, because the drier in the base had been broken since the RED Soldier had put his helmet in it a week before. He figured that if his stuff was tucked away the Spy would be less likely to look through it.

            During a bit of ceasefire on Friday morning, however, the Sniper discovered the Spy patiently waiting for him in a different nest that he was moving to.

            “I am not an honest man,” said the Spy, sitting on a crate, “But I will be honest with you about one thing, and that is that your van smells like piss.”

            The Sniper rolled his eyes.  “Thanks,” he muttered.

            “So, I have a proposal.  Perhaps we should go to a bar in town tonight?”

            The Sniper thought about that for a moment.  “No can do, spook,” he said, “Any of my team saw me they’d have me fired by the next morning.”

            The Spy shrugged and stood up, drawing his knife.  “Perhaps another day, then.”

           

            About an hour after respawning, the Sniper perched in a new nest. He smelled smoke before he heard the Spy behind him.  “There is a bar in Eagle Nest, about half an hour from here.  It is unlikely that you will see any of your team there.”

            The Sniper sighed and looked down to see a knife (the one with the roses) pressed to his neck.  “So what, you’re gonna kill me here if I don’t go?”

            “Oh no, I am going to kill you no matter what.  I simply wanted to hear your answer.”

            “Listen spook,” the Sniper said, “I don’t know what you’re trying to do and I bet it’s not something good.  Seems like you really want me drunk for some reason.”

            The Spy was silent for a moment, then said, “You do not have to drink if you do not want to.”

            “Don’t drink?” the Sniper asked, “Why would anyone go to a bar and not drink?”

            “I do not know, but the offer stands.”

            “I dunno spook, I’ll have to think about it,” he said, and the knife made a clean line across his windpipe.

 

            The Sniper ended up shooting the Spy two more times later in the day. He told himself that it was so they could get even, but really he wanted more time to think.  But when they hit stalemate at five, he still hadn’t made up his mind.

On the one hand was failure, being fired, maybe even dying without respawn.  From what Truckie had told him, respawn was slower and worse when they were off hours, so they tried to avoid using it (but sometimes it was unavoidable, thanks to his team). 

            And on the other hand was what?  A drink? A friend?  No, the Spy was not his friend, he couldn’t be his friend. Still though, the Spy was intriguing and hard to read.  Not that the Sniper was good at reading people to begin with, but part of him couldn’t help but be curious about the Spy.  And it seemed that feeling was mutual.

            There was the weekly post-Friday strategy meeting, to talk about what had gone well that week and what hadn’t.  It was a lot of Soldier yelling over people, but the RED Spy was the best strategist, as well as the Medic and Engineer.  Sometimes the Sniper was asked for his opinion on offence, because he could see almost everything outside of the base, but other than that he didn’t speak much. It didn’t matter to him who won or lost each day, because it usually wasn’t his fault or his job.

            The rest of the team wasn’t in a good mood.  Stalemate wasn’t as bad as loosing, but it felt worse for some reason. There was no real resolution to anything, so it was hard to tell what they were doing right and what they weren’t. The meeting was a lot of quiet grumbling and muttering under breaths.  He felt like he was being smothered by the conference room, and was only really able to really breathe when he burst out into the desert air.

            There was a tap on his shoulder suddenly, and he turned around to see a slightly flicker, slowly moving away.  He paused for a moment, then thought, oh, what the hell, and followed the faint smell of tobacco and spice around to the parking lot.  He lost it for a second, until there was a whisper in his ear.

            “Have you decided?”

            The Sniper bristled slightly and swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Uh, yeah,” (he hadn’t), “I think I’ll go.”

            He thought he heard the Spy smile, but maybe he was imagining it. “Good, good,” he murmured, and pressed a slip of paper into the Sniper’s hand.  “Here is the address.  I will meet you there at eight.”

            With that, the Sniper could find no trace of him.  He shook his head slightly, and walked to his van. He made dinner in a daze (beef stew on the stove in his camper) and sat down to rub his temples. He really needed a beer, he thought, which was funny because the thing that was worrying him was the fact that he was going to be getting a beer.  But it was enemy beer, he reminded himself, he’d been drinking enemy beer this week.

            But why should he care, really.  It was beer.  And beer’s better when shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a bit short because I wrote the entire thing and promptly discovered it was twice the length of the other ones, so I cut it in half. So good news: Chapter 6 is already done! I'll post it soonish.  
> Since I feel bad for making you guys wait a long time and then posting a short chapter, here's the fanmix I finally finished: http://8tracks.com/iamnotawindmill/to-be-hidden-that-way  
> Not sure why, but the cover art isn't showing up for some reason?  
> By the way, Eagle Nest village is actually a real place in New Mexico, about a 45 minute drive from Taos, the town that Teufort is based on. Apparently the real life Black Mesa is also near by. Who knew? (hint: Valve knew. There's no way that's a coincidence)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains drunk driving (no one gets hurt, but better safe than sorry)

            The Sniper hadn’t actually driven his van for about a month, so maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised when it decided to overheat about ten minutes down the highway.  He got out and yanked the hood up, swearing loudly.  He glanced up and down the road.  He needed a payphone to call the Engineer, but he couldn’t see one across the open desert and distant mountains.

            He sighed and stuck out his thumb.  There wasn’t really much on Route 64 besides trucks, and it wasn’t like he, a tall and grubby looking mercenary, was exactly the safest looking hitchhiker.  He was about to start walking back to Teufort when a silver sports car pulled over.

            He raised his eyebrows, but opened the door.  And promptly discovered the BLU Spy, wearing a fedora above his usual mask, cackling and snorting as he sat at the wheel.

            “Fuck you,” the Sniper grumbled as he climbed in, ducking slightly.  The Spy had to use his gloves to wipe tears from his eyes before he could start driving again.

            “I am sorry,” he said with a chuckle, “It is rude of me to laugh at your misfortune, especially before we are going for a drink.”

            “Spook, you laugh at everybody’s misfortune,” the Sniper stated, “I’ve seen you on the field, laughing at the people you kill.  You’re completely mad.”

            “Perhaps,” the Spy mused, pursing his lips.  “But you say this as if you do not do the same.”

            “What?”

            “I have heard you when you shoot my team.  You always have something rude to say about them.”

            “Out loud?” the Sniper asked.

            “You do not realize?” the Spy glanced away from the road at him.

            “Oh,” the Sniper said quietly.

            “You do not have to stop,” the Spy interjected, “It can be interesting to listen to when I am bored.”

            “What, so you just stand there and spy on me?” the Sniper asked, then realized what he had said.

            "The Spy smirked slightly.  “Yes, that is exactly what I do.”

            They were silent for a moment.  The sun had set behind the mountains, but it wasn’t entirely dark yet.  The car smelt of leather and smoke, with cupholders and all sorts of buttons that the Sniper didn’t recognize.  It had a skylight, too.

           This is one fancy-ass car.”

            The Spy smiled.  “Thank you,” he said, “though I am sure anything would look better than your piece of shit.”

            “Hey, he’s not a piece of shit.”

            “Who’s car are we driving in though?”

            The Sniper was silent, and they pulled into the exit for Eagle Nest.  Eagle Nest was a quiet town with a quieter town center, but at least it was more sane than Teufort.  It was not a place that one would usually choose to spend a Friday night in, but as they parked next to The Rusty Nail, the Sniper could see why the Spy had picked it.

            It was quiet, like the rest of the town, but it was very different than the either of Teufort’s two bars.  “Older” didn’t seem quite right; it was closer to being “refined” with its dark wood panels and thick carpet.

            "This place is pretty nice.  You taking me on some kinda date?” the Sniper asked, holding the door with a chuckle, which the Spy joined.

            "Please bushman, if I was taking you on a date we would be going somewhere much nicer.”

            "It don’t get much nicer than this.  Not out here, anyways.”

            "That is true,” the Spy said with a shrug, “But there is nothing truly ‘nice’ in this whole damned country.”

            They each got their own drinks at the bar (the Sniper ordered a beer and the Spy a glass of a red wine the Sniper didn’t recognize) and sat at a booth.  There was an old man at the bar, moping and muttering to himself, and the bartender, a middle-aged man with a beard who seemed more invested in his book than his patrons, and no one else.  Surprising for a Friday night, the Sniper thought, Eagle Nest must really be a quiet town.

            For a while they were silent, savoring their drinks and the peace that the weekend afforded them.  Part of the Sniper told him to relax and enjoy his break, and the other part knew that it wasn’t a break, not really, not as long as he was in enemy territory.  Any second he could be ambushed, poisoned, stabbed, anything could happen.  The combination of alcohol and adrenalin was thrilling.

            Eventually, they began talking about nothing in particular; first of work, of their teams (it seemed that both Scouts did not know when to stop talking), of guns and knives.  Eventually, it shifted to their travels.  The Spy, it seemed, was a fantastic storyteller, and though the Sniper wasn’t sure if his story about assassinating an ex-Nazi general who was hiding in Ecuador was true (it seemed a bit farfetched), he couldn’t help but listen attentively, drinking in each word instead of from the bottle in his hand.

            Somewhere between the Spy’s stories, however, he realized something.

            "You’ve never been to Australia?”

            The Spy shook his head.  “Non.  It is one of the two continents I have never been to, and the other is Antarctica.”

            “Why the hell not?”

            “My work has never brought me there.  That, and the security is impossibly tight, as I am sure you know.”

            “That’s true,” the Sniper considered, “But you should go there at some point.  It’s the most beautiful place in the world.”

            The Spy wrinkled his forehead.  “I doubt that.  The culture is not…suited to my tastes.”

            “Well, no, the people are shit.  If you’re not careful you’ll get mugged in the city in five seconds, and there’s always brawls in the middle of the roads, but the country’s nice.”

            “Is that where you grew up, then, in the country?” asked the Spy.

            “Well,” the Sniper began but stopped himself, “Actually, no, that’s a personal question.”

            The Spy leaned back and took a sip from his glass.  “Have you ever been to France, then?”

            “No, never had a job there.”

            “It is a lovely place, especially in the summer.  It is never to warm and never too cold.  The people may not always be kind, but the food is the best I have tasted.”

            The Sniper shrugged, “Never really tried French food.”

            “It is much, much better than anything you will ever eat in America.  I am still trying to understand what a ‘hush puppy’ is.”

            “I think it’s fried corn stuff or something?” the Sniper said, trying to remember what the Engineer had told him, “I don’t really know.”

            “Disgusting,” muttered the Spy, pulling a face.

            Their topic traveled to other things again, until the old man at the bar had left and four loud men, farmers it seemed, came in and clanked beers and whacked each others backs two tables over.

            They had a silent and mutual agreement to leave at that point.  They each paid for their own drinks and left without saying a word.  They got in the car and the Spy started driving, or at least he tried to.

            “How drunk are you?” the Sniper asked.

            “Not especially.”

            “Well, you’re swerving a bit.  Mind letting me drive instead?”

            To his surprise, the Spy nodded and pulled over (crookedly) into the curb.  They changed seats and the Sniper got them out onto the highway.  He wasn’t entirely sober, but then again he wasn’t the one dozing in the passengers seat.  Eventually he saw his van by the side of the road and realized that he didn’t have a plan.  He parked the Spy’s car behind it.

            “Spy,” he said, and got no response until he poked the Spy’s shoulder, who grumbled and looked at him with half-lidded eyes, “This is my stop.  I’m not letting you drive anywhere tonight, so you can sleep in here or you can sleep in my van.  Your choice.”

            The Spy nodded and stumbled out of the car.  For a second, he looked in the window of the back seat, before sighing and leaning against the door.  “Can you lock the doors?” he asked, and the Sniper obliged.  “I am worried that I have too many enemies to sleep in plain sight.”

            “Sure,” the Sniper said, opening the door to his van and helping his friend inside.  Not his friend, he corrected, his enemy.

            It struck him how easy it would be to kill the Spy right then, drunk and surrounded by the Sniper’s own guns.  Who knew if the Spy would respawn; he could be rid of distractions from his job.  But no, BLU would send another Spy, maybe a better one, maybe a worse one.  Was it a gamble he wanted to make?

            “You can take the bunk,” he said.

            He helped the Spy up the ladder, and watched him slump across the mattress.  “Merci,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

            The Sniper stood there for a moment, watching the Spy’s chest rise and fall.  How human he looked, lying in the Sniper’s own bed.  How easy it would be to shoot him there.  Or to curl up beside him.

            He cleared his throat.  “If you’ve gotta hurl, do it outside,” and he thought he saw the Spy nod.  He had a few extra blankets for the winter, which he spread across the floor, moving papers and pieces of guns out of the way.  “You gonna take off your jacket your tie or anything maybe?” the Sniper asked the Spy.  There was no response.  He shrugged, and turned off the lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sighs a lot, these two are really taking their time to get together. Like, I knew it'd take a while but this is a really long while. Not too much longer, I hope, before they actually get together.  
> The Rusty Nail is fictional and has a cheesy name. Apparently I'm not good at naming bars.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter mentions vomiting.

            The next morning the Sniper woke to the sound of cars and a crick in his neck.  He lay on the floor for a while, remembering what exactly had happened the night before.  Had he really let the Spy stay in his van?  He was glad to be alive, headache and all, and he was glad the Spy hadn’t woken up and taken off with his van, dumping him on the side of the highway (or, worse, the middle).

            He eventually sat up with a rush of nausea.  God, had he really been that drunk last night?  He didn’t think he’d been that drunk, but he couldn’t quite remember how many beers he’d had.  Shit.  What if he’d said something important?  What if he’d given away some battle strategies?  Something worse?  Something about his life, something that could be used for blackmail?  Was the Spy really trying to get information out of him?  No, no that couldn’t be the case. 

            He glanced up at the bunk.  The Spy was still there, lying on his stomach and fully clothed.  His face was smushed sideways and his mask was rumpled.  He looked peaceful, the Sniper decided, for a man who usually carried at least two knives on him.  For a man that had killed him so many times already.

            “Hey,” the Sniper said quietly and the Spy didn’t move.  He considered shouting to wake him up, but decided against it because of how dry his throat was.  Coffee, he needed coffee.  He stared at the kettle for a moment, willing hot coffee to make itself because he did not want to move, but finally stood.  He put the kettle on and sat down hard in the booth.

            When it whistled though, the Spy jolted up and rammed into the low ceiling.  “Fuck,” he groaned, holding his head.

            “Morning,” the Sniper grumbled, pouring the water into his mug.

            The Spy groaned again slumped into the pillow.  They were silent for a moment, the Sniper sipping his coffee, until the Spy asked, “Do you have any water?”

            “Course I do,” the Sniper stood (reluctantly) to get the Spy a glass.  Later, he wondered why he helped care for his hungover enemy, but in that moment some instinct told him to be, well, kind.

            The Spy gulped the water down and the Sniper got him another glass.  And another.  Eventually, he climbed down from the bunk, walked outside and vomited.  When he was done, he shouted, “Pourquoi est-il tellement putain ensoleillé!” and returned with his hands over his eyes.

            “Bright out there?” the Sniper asked with a slight smirk.

            “Fuck you,” growled the Spy, downing another glass of water. 

            They sat in the booth for a while, it couldn’t have been more than half an hour, nursing headaches and wondering exactly what they’d said the night before.  The Sniper wanted to ask: what’d I say?  What’d I tell you last night?  But he knew that he couldn’t ask that, because that would force the Spy to try to remember.  It was terrifying though, to know that he could have dirt on him.  His job (and the rest of his life, as small as it was) was in danger.

            Eventually the Spy stood up.  “I should be leaving soon.  I do have matters to attend to today.  I will drive you back to a phone in Teufort but I cannot drive you to the base.”

            “Yeah, that’s fine,” the Sniper said, “just let me pack some stuff first.”

            The Spy nodded and went out to his car, and the Sniper jammed some fresh clothes, some food, and a waterbottle into a pack.  Then he grabbed a sleeping bag and his kukri.  The Spy raised his eyebrows as he dropped the pack in the trunk.

            “You look as if you are not going back to your base.”

            The Sniper shrugged, climbing into the passenger’s seat.  “I’ve got a bunk there, but I was planning on going hiking this weekend anyways.  I haven’t been for a while and it’s gonna be cold soon so it might be my last chance.”

            The Spy shook his head and started the car.  “I realize that the bases are not the most, ah, comfortable places to live, but I am sure that they are better than the wilderness.”

            “I guess.  They’re louder though.”

            The Spy considered this, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.

 

            He caught a rabbit for dinner.  He was worried that he wouldn’t have enough to eat that night, out in the desert.  He hadn’t brought enough supplies because he’d been in a rush that morning.  But it would be okay, he decided, with the rabbit roasting on a stick over his new fire, and he’d survived on less before.

            The Spy had dropped him at the payphone where he’d called the Engineer, who was probably a better repairman than anyone in Teufort, and started walking.  The sun had been hot and the bugs bit at his ankles, but it felt better than the stifling heat of any building.   He could breathe.  He could think.

            And he had a lot of thinking to do.  Normally, the Sniper didn’t like to think too much about his life, because it was simpler not to.  He had his job to focus on, instead of emotions and whatever other bullshit people were supposed to think about.  But sometimes he did think, he did wonder, about what he was doing with his life.

            He leaned back and looked at the stars.  He hadn’t been out hiking since he was in Badwater Basin, that one night three months ago.  He wanted to forget what had happened, but knew that he wouldn’t.

            It was a hot May night after a good day’s win.  There had been something there before, he knew, and the RED Engineer at the Basin knew it too, as they fell together in the back of the Sniper’s van.  He was from Louisiana, a few years younger than him, always smiling and laughing.  It made the Sniper feel younger, too, as they lay there in the early morning.

            A few hours later they had work.  He missed nearly every shot behind bleary eyes, sore and wondering just what he’d done, wondering if anyone else had realized.  That afternoon they’d barely looked at each other, but he knew what the knock on his door meant and it could happen again.

            It was the same routine for a few weeks.  Most nights he hardly slept, from either sex or worry, depending on the night.  They hardly spoke to each other, and some nights he’d lay awake wondering why.  Whenever he tried to speak, he felt like he simply couldn’t.  Like there was something that stuck in his chest.

            He spent a weekend in the desert to think.  When he came back, he ended it.  Part of him expected tears and shouts, but all he got was a shrug and an “alright.”  He knew it was strange, but he wanted more than that.  That their time together was really an “alright” in the end seemed wrong.

            The next few weeks were some of the loneliest he’d had in a long time.  He’d become a poet that weekend, he thought, because he rarely waxed philosophical until then.  He approached his work with a newfound vigor, shooting each head like it was a thought he wanted to forget, an emotion he didn’t want to feel.

            But they came back, like his enemies did from respawn, as he looked at the stars three months later.  He was alone again, not because he was miles from civilization, but because of the Spy.  Yes, he thought, it was the Spy’s fault, it had to be.

            He’d spoken more to the Spy than anyone on his own teams since joining RED.  Hell, maybe more than to anyone since he’d left home.  He wasn’t good at talking to people usually, but the Spy seemed to be an exception.  Maybe it was because he was good at getting information out of people, or maybe the Sniper they were just two people who weren’t all that different.

            He remembered hearing something about how war brought men together, sacrificing their lives for each other and becoming great heroes.  But those men were always allies, and he and the Spy were not.  If there was any bond of battle between them, it was a bond of hate.

            He did not hate the Spy, he realized, which was probably a bad thing.  The rest of his team would constantly berate the BLUs for some reason or another, and it seemed to be their reason for fighting.  Their “motive.”  So what was his motive, then, if he didn’t hate the Spy?  He just liked shooting people.  It didn’t matter who they were.

            He worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep shooting the Spy if this continued.  Emotions would get in the way again, and he wouldn’t be able to do his job.  Here he was, RED’s best sniper, going out for drinks with the enemy.

            He took a deep breath, smelling the rabbit and realizing just how hungry he was.  Could he shoot the Spy on Monday?  Yes, he decided, he could do that.  Could he shoot the Spy on Tuesday?  Yes, he could do that too.  He could shoot the Spy on any day.  He was a professional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say here I guess. Life's being busy and annoying and I'm a bit distracted from writing. Also, if it's feeling especially choppy in the upcoming chapters, it's because I've been reading Hemmingway. Sometimes I wind up thinking in the writing style that I read.


	8. Chapter 8

           Monday came much too quickly for the Sniper.  He wished he could have more time away from the base and away from his problems than just a weekend, a weekend that had only really started on Saturday. Monday felt boomingly loud compared to the rest of the desert, each shot and shout rattling his skull. He had a headache by noon. They lost.

           His mind felt blurry until the Spy knocked on his door, then the world was clearer, even with the booze. They laughed and argued about many things that the Sniper forgot, probably because he was paying more attention to the Spy’s voice more than his words.  He smoked one of the Spy’s cigarettes outside of the van as they said goodnight.

           Tuesday was a quiet loss, though the Sniper felt like it had been a good day.  They’d tussled a few times, swearing and chatting between swings. That night he bought a pack of cigarettes at the store in town and smoked two.

           On Wednesday he saw the Spy through his scope, carefully sprinting across the top of the bridge. He missed.  He decided it was because the Spy was running too fast (though he’d managed to hit the BLU Scout when he was running much faster) and what did it matter to him if they later ate their lunches together and then threw each other out of a window?  Well, it mattered to his teammates, apparently, as they sat glumly in the mess-hall that night after another loss.

           Thursday was bitter. The RED team had been doing so poorly that there was talk of Redman Mann himself coming down to speak with them in person and maybe even fire someone.  There was no one to blame, really, for all of their losses.  It was a team effort and a team failure.  But it felt good to forget about his team with the Spy that evening, enemy or not.

           On Friday, the REDs finally broke their losing streak.  The Soldier decided it was thanks to his violent pep-talks, but he did buy a round when they went to one of Teufort’s bars to celebrate.  The only people who didn’t come were the RED Spy and Pyro, who spoke less to the team than even the Sniper.

           None of them commented about the BLU Soldier who had left the bar as soon as they’d entered.

           When the Sniper returned to his van there was a note with an address and a time written on it. He drove there the next night, and discovered the Spy sitting in a bar a few towns over.  He explained that they shouldn’t go to the same places too often. Neither of them mentioned that it was because they didn’t want to get caught, because when they were together they could forget about the rest of their lives.

 

           On Monday morning he peered through his scope in the orange autumn light, until he felt something sticking into his back.

           “Hey,” he said.

           “Hello,” came a breath in his ear.

           They were silent for a moment, until the Sniper took another shot, at the BLU Heavy.

           “I’m afraid I will have to kill you at some point,” said the Spy.

           It was warm, but the Sniper shivered.  “Surprised you haven’t done me in yet,” he muttered.  He shot the BLU Scout.  He swore at his miss and shot again.  Hit.

           “I do love to watch you work.”

           The Sniper couldn’t resist inhaling the Spy’s smoke that curled around him.  “Guess that’s a compliment,” he muttered.

           “I believe it is.”

           There was a sudden pain in his head.

           He woke up in respawn a while later. Part of him wanted to roll his eyes at the Spy and his dramatization of a worthless death, but another wondered why the pain had been in his head and not his back.

 

            The knock that came that evening was a bit quicker than usual.           He opened the door to no one and stepped aside so that no one could enter.  When the Spy removed his cloak, he was carrying two cases of beer, which caused the Sniper to raise an eyebrow.

            “How drunk do you plan on getting?” he asked.

            “More than usual,” the Spy said, setting them on the table as he sat in the booth. The Sniper joined him.

            “You okay?”  The Sniper mentally scolded himself for how concerned he sounded.

            “I am just fine,” the Spy muttered, unscrewing the beer, “just fine.” He took a long swig and the Sniper watched him.  The Sniper wanted to ask what was wrong, but it seemed that the Spy didn’t want to talk. And it wasn’t really his business anyways.

            For a few minutes they drank quietly, though they spoke eventually. It felt like a regular evening, but something in the air was sour.  The Spy seemed to be contemplating something, never quite meeting the Sniper’s eyes. He frequently trailed off and it was driving the Sniper a bit mad.

            He couldn’t stand it any longer, as the Spy had drank his way through most of the first six-pack and had started on the second.  “Spook.  What’s wrong.”

            The Spy picked up his bottle and studied it like it was a piece of art, avoiding the Sniper’s gaze.  “Do you ever wonder why we are here?”

            “What?”

            “Why we are out here in the fucking desert blowing each other apart and never dying.”

            The Sniper blinked, then frowned.  “Don’t you try to use any of your manipulation bullshit on me,” he growled, “It won’t work. I’m not telling you anything.”

            The Spy sighed.  “That was not what I meant,” he murmured.

            Again they were silent, but eventually the conversation drifted into happier territory.  Well, no the Sniper thought, what they were talking about wasn’t exactly happy, considering that they were mostly recounting tales of the jobs they’d had (jobs which usually involved killing people), but it seemed much less glum.  Sure, it seemed that the Spy smiled too wide and laughed too loud, but the Sniper decided to pay it no mind.

            That is, he did until he felt a knee bump his under the table. Surely, it was an accident, though nothing the Spy ever did was really an accident, and it meant nothing. He was thinking too much about it. It was better to just ignore how it made his heart speed up just a bit more.

            But after their knuckles brushed as they each reached for another beer (the Spy had had 6 at this point, which the Sniper figured was a bit worrying), he was finally certain that, no, it had not been an accident.  He leaned back in the booth, contemplating the Spy for a moment and narrowing his eyes.  The Spy looked at him curiously.

           “Why are we doing this,” the Sniper suddenly asked.  “Why are you drunk in my van when I should have killed you a week ago.”

           “Because,” the Spy licked his lips, “You enjoy danger.  You enjoy the thrill of the hunt, to watch your enemy before pouncing. And I am the same way,” he leaned across the table, “The thrill of the chase is what drove me here.”

           The Sniper watched as the Spy leaned further and watched as his lips met his own. They were soft with some stubble, and though he sat stock-still, his heart rattled his bones. The Spy wasn’t moving either, leaving his lips on the Sniper’s, until finally pulling away.

           “Perhaps,” he said, sitting back and narrowing his eyes, “I miscalculated.”

           Suddenly, the drunken trickster who wanted to smother his problems with a bottle and a friend became the man that the Sniper saw on the battlefield.  The man who never let light into his eyes, who grit his teeth and swore more than he smiled.  And there was nothing the Sniper could do about it.

           He was suddenly very aware of his breathing.  He felt like he had to focus on it or it would stop in his throat as the Spy stood up, teetering into the counter.  He grumbled to himself and tried to yank the door open, hands slipping across the walls, face flushed and mask slightly askew.

           “You’re really pissed, aren’t you,” the Sniper said, almost in wonderment, and he thought he saw the Spy nod. He rose slightly, shaking a bit, and reached around the Spy to open the door.  “Go home, spook,” he said.

           “Je n'ai pas une maison,” the Spy slurred, glowering at the ground outside the camper.  The Sniper didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound too happy.  He was torn between shoving him out and pulling him back in.  Holding him away from that strange bitterness in his voice.

           They didn’t move for a minute, standing there, his thoughts louder than the crickets in the desert wind.

           Finally, the Spy stepped outside and sat on the ground. “Je vais vivre ici maintenant,” he said, lying down, “C'est une meilleure maison.”

           “The fuck are you doing?” the Sniper asked.

           “Retour à la maison.”

           “Go back to your fucking base.”

           “Non.”

           “God damn it,” the Sniper muttered, running a hand over his face.  It looked like the Spy intended on sleeping out in front of his van, which would be really, really weird in the morning, especially if one of his team walked by.  He didn’t want to carry the Spy back to the BLU base for fear of getting shot, but he didn’t want to leave him outside either.

           After moment, an idea struck him.  He grabbed his rifle from the counter and aimed.  “If you don’t start walking back, I’ll shoot you.”

           The Spy sat up at this, and turned towards him.  He said nothing with his voice but everything with his face, contorted into sadness and anger and loneliness together.  His eyes were bleary and the side of his mask was covered in dirt. The Sniper felt a wave of nausea at how pitiful he looked.

           “You heard me, get up!” the Sniper growled.  His hands were shaking.

           The Spy didn’t move.

           He didn’t hear the shot. He only saw the Spy fall back, a clean hole in his head, body vanishing without a sound.  His hands were shaking.  Why were his hands shaking?  His hands couldn’t be shaking, they didn’t shake, he was a professional.

           He was still aiming. He lowered his gun and tried to breathe. He turned back into the bright glow of his van, casting a shadow on the bloodstain behind him.

           God, he needed a cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is the longest chapter so far I think. I didn't really want to cut it, though, because I worried that it would loose some of its coherence, but yeah. Took these jerks way too long to get together.


	9. Chapter 9

           The Sniper hardly slept that night, but he was up, like every morning, at seven o clock sharp. But instead of his usual morning routine, he lay in his bunk for what felt like hours, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to call in sick, but after last week’s losses he couldn’t afford missing a day.  Eventually he shoved himself from bed and tumbled into his uniform.

           He nearly fell asleep at the scope that morning and quickly made himself more coffee during some ceasefire. It was too bright and he couldn’t help but squint as he walked back to his nest, mug in one hand and gun in the other.

           The Spy hadn’t shown up that morning, and the Sniper wondered what would happen. That night he’d thought about exactly what he’d say when the Spy came by as he always did.  Part of him hoped that the Spy would have been too drunk to remember anything, and another part of him felt disgustingly curious about what had happened.

           Shortly after noon he heard the quick patter of footsteps behind him.  He smelt burning flesh, turning around to see the RED Pyro lighting the BLU Spy on fire, screaming as he fell to the ground.  The Sniper sat in shock as the Pyro said a muffled “hello!” giving a cheery wave as they skipped away. The Spy writhed and screamed on the ground and the Sniper couldn’t help but feel bile rising in the back of his throat. He grabbed a jarate and tossed it on the Spy, who continued screaming.

           Eventually his screaming slowed into sobs as the Sniper sat silently staring at him, mind blank. Eventually the Spy moaned, “Are you trying to torture me more?”

           The Sniper swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.  “No, uh, sorry.”

           “Just shoot me, then,” the Spy said, covering his face because most of his mask had burned off. Most of his jacket was gone as well, and the Sniper could see burns, bubbling and red.

           He nodded and reached for his gun, then paused.  “Can I ask you a question first?”

           The Spy groaned, “I have no choice but to say yes.”

           “Did you mean it?” he asked, voice scratchy.

           The Spy sighed, “Yes of course I did, now kill me please.”

           The Sniper shot like it was another shot.  The room felt very quiet as the Spy’s body vanished.  Suddenly the shouts from outside brought him back and he finally let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

           Eventually he moved to a nest higher up in the base, mostly because the one he was in before smelled like fire and piss but also because he needed to focus. He needed to have the Spy out of his mind.  He lined up each shot with as much precision as he could muster, concentrating on each detail, each line and angle to make sure he wouldn’t miss a single one.

           The siren rang for five o clock to signal that the day was done and the Sniper sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.  He pulled the gun apart and packed it into the case, and stood to leave.

           “You truly are amazing to watch work,” came a familiar voice behind him, and the Sniper jumped, almost dropping the case.  Instead he put it down carefully and turned around.

           The Spy leaned against the wall, slightly in the shadows with a single beam of light from the boarded window falling across him.  His arms were crossed and he looked tired.

           “You really meant it then?” he asked quietly.

           The Spy shrugged. “That depends on what ‘it’ means, but I believe I did.”

           “It wasn’t just the booze?”

           The Spy shook his head. “ It was not.  Sometimes a man just needs a little extra courage.”

           The Sniper rushed towards him, grabbing him by his collar and kissing him roughly. Their noses knocked together and their teeth clacked, pushing against each other and groaning. The Spy tasted like his cigarettes a bit like gunpowder, and tore at his lower lip.  The Sniper eventually leaned his head back, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as the Spy sucked on his collarbones.

           The Sniper felt very aware of his body and unsure what to do.  His hands were still on the Spy’s chest, so he brought them lower and carefully put them around his waist.  The Spy glanced up at him, grey eyes questioning, then leaned up to pull him into another kiss.

           This time they were slower, tasting each part of each other’s mouths.  The Spy tasted like his cigarettes and a bit like gunpowder. Well, everything tasted like gunpowder there, even the food, but somehow it was different on the Spy’s lips. Savory, almost.

           “Sniper?” came a call from down the hall, and the Sniper all but leaped away as the Spy cloaked. The RED Engineer peered around the doorway.  “We’ve got a meeting, you know.”

           “Yeah,” the Sniper said, his voice coarse. He coughed to clear it. “I mean yeah.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

           The Engineer nodded. “Alright.  Soldier’ll kill me if you don’t get down there soon though.”

           “Yeah, I’ll be right there,” the Sniper said, painfully aware of the Spy’s scent so close to him. He prayed that his erection wasn’t too obvious, because it certainly felt like it was.  Luckily, the Engineer turned away.

           “Just hurry up is all,” he said with a slight wave.

           The Sniper stood stock still until he couldn’t hear the echo of the Engineer’s boots against the rotting wood floor.  After a few more seconds, the Sniper released the breath he didn’t realize that he’d been holding. Behind him, he heard the Spy de-cloak, and saw him reach for a cigarette out of the corner of his eye.

           “I got a meeting to go to,” the Sniper said, looking over his shoulder.

           The Spy sighed. “You do,” he muttered, staring at the cigarette as he lit it.

           They stood silently for a moment, and the Spy took a drag, and the Sniper waited for him to say something. He looked just as glum as he had the night before, slurring in French.  The Sniper’s stomach churned at the memory of the hole in his head.

           He took a deep breath. “Do you want to come by later?” he asked, and the Spy finally glanced up at him.  “After I’m done, I mean, with my meeting.”

           The Spy shrugged. “I am not sure I will.”

           The Sniper’s shoulders sagged as he picked up his gun.  “Alright, suit yourself, then.” Defeated, he moved to leave.

           “Perhaps you would rather just come back here,” the Spy suggested suddenly, glowering at his cigarette case, and the Sniper spun around.  “After you are done, of course.”

           The Sniper let out a shaky breath.  “Sure,” he said. “But the team might want to eat dinner tonight, so I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

           “Take your time,” the Spy said, “I will wait here.”

           “I might be a while though.”

           “It’s fine,” the Spy said, “I will be here when you return.  Now go to your meeting.”

           The Sniper stared at him, then nodded, and rushed to talk with the rest of his team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DEAD I SWEAR  
> Life just showed up and was like "hell naw you ain't got time to write" so I didn't. I had a big project that took up most of May, then I graduated (!!) and summer started, a big milestone birthday happened, and I was just in a bit of a funk. But hey, I'm back and kicking. On a job hunt and trying to figure out how to life, but I think I'm doing well.  
> I'm sorry I left this on like, the worst cliffhanger possible. This next chapter was sort of a nose to the grindstone so-to-speak, because I was so focused on getting these two together that I didn't have anything after that as laid out and clearly planned. But you can expect much, much more frequent updates!  
> I'm so sorry for the hiatus without warning. I'll try to at least warn you guys or something if it happens again  
>  ~~Also I probably shouldn't have stayed up until 2 am to post this but whatever ~~~~~~


End file.
